The Only One in the World
by Jean Hicks
Summary: "I hate to think how many Sherlock Holmes you had to run into before you found the right one." Years down the road, Sherlock and John meet again. Sequel to to "A Game of Riddles". Short, fun, and cute with a little bit of angst.


**AN: **Had a few requests for a sequel to "A Game of Riddles". I wanted the story to be able to stand on its own, so I am uploading this as a separate piece. Chances are you have to read the first to understand this. Minor talk of drug usage, and a little angst (I mean... what else do you expect from me!?)... otherwise a cute little story about our (second?) favorite Doctor and our favorite Consulting Detective meeting again some years down the road. (I've messed with the timelines a bit, as in the previous story.) Read, review, and enjoy!

* * *

_Physician, heal thyself._ The sun was out, but John didn't feel very sunny as he walked through the park leaning heavily on his cane. Parents with their young children, professionals on their lunch break, and the stray elderly individual were out enjoying the warm weather. Inside, John felt cold and tired. He hadn't slept in days, his leg hurt with every step, and his shoulder stabbed him with every heartbeat. _I used to be a doctor_, John thought to himself, _and now I can't even mend my own wounds._

"Watson! John Watson!" John turned on his heel.

"Mike…" He acknowledged the man sitting on the bench. They had been friends back when John was in university.

"I haven't seen you in forever, didn't even know you were in London. Last I heard you were overseas getting shot at… what happened?" Mike had stood and walked towards John. He motioned to the cane John was leaning on.

"Got shot."

Mike's eyes fell, but his fake smile stayed plastered in place. "Yes, well, you're looking well for it." What a stupid, back-handed compliment. John had the sudden urge to slap him or run away. "How long are you in town?"

"Not much longer, I imagine. Rent is high on an army pension."

"Have you thought about a flat share?"

"Sure… but who'd want me as a flat mate?"

Mike's eyes lit up and his smile extended. "I think I know just the man."

* * *

When John saw this potential flat mate sitting at a microscope in the lab at Saint Bart's, he felt a shiver of recognition run up his spin. When the man turned around, John was getting a sense of déjà vu. When the man opened his mouth, John was absolutely certain he had met this man before.

John spent a majority of the time the man spent analyzing him trying to compare the man before him with the image of a small boy he had burned into his head.

"The name's…"

"Sherlock Holmes." John interrupted. The man looked at him with a distrusting smile.

"Yes. And the address is 221 B Baker Street. I'll see you later this evening, if you're interested." John nodded and with a swirl of his coat, Sherlock Holmes was out of the room.

"Mr. Holmes." His hand extended, he stood in front of the address that had been given to him. The sun was beginning to set. Sherlock shook his hand politely and then reached for the door handle.

"It's Sherlock, please. Besides, I have a feeling we've met before."

John wanted to bring up exactly how they knew each other, but Sherlock seemed content to leave things at "maybe we passed on the street once before". It was no matter. All too soon John was swept into the hurricane of murder, mystery, and mayhem that seemed to follow the gangly man from Baker Street.

* * *

"We meet again, Mr. Watson. No… I'm told its Doctor now."

"And I hear you've gotten a little government job yourself, Mycroft."

"I suppose you could say that, Doctor."

"Are you here to try and frighten me away from him?"

"Quite the contrary. I think you will be good for him."

"You do?"

"Yes. My brother needs a friend like you."

"Always good to have a Holmes' approval."

"Until next time then, Doctor Watson."

* * *

After the taxi driver, after dinner—proper dinner, not the watching-for-suspects kind—the two men wandered their way back to Baker Street. John moved mechanically to the kitchen to fix two cups of tea for their tired bodies. Sherlock remained perched on the couch, fingers folded under his chin. The doctor contemplated the other man's sudden change of mood. Dinner had been pleasurable, laughing and talking and getting to know one another (not that there was much Sherlock didn't already know about John just by looking). He brought the tea into the living room.

"Be all right if I ask you what's on your mind?" He said, placing the hot cup on the table in front of Sherlock.

"I can't place you." The taller man responded quickly. "Obviously we've met before… but I don't remember." His eyes were dark, distant and searching.

John chuckled quietly. "You were young."

"I couldn't have been that young, John. You're not _that_ much older than I am."

"Nine and a half, if I remember correctly."

Given the reference point, Sherlock threw his head back on the couch cushion. His eyes fluttered closed and darted as he tried to recover old memories. Once John was convinced his flatmate wasn't having a fit, he picked up the newspaper and sipped his tea.

Five minutes later the paper got incredibly soggy when Sherlock flew from the couch like a tightly wound spring and John jumped, knocking still hot tea all across his jumper and the paper.

"London!" He exclaimed. "I ran away. I met you the night I ran away to London."

John smiled and nodded, carefully standing up to dispose of the sodden paper and his dripping jumper.

"We had a game of riddles, and it was cold. You took me home, and promised you'd call me up when you got back…"

"Yea… about that…" John had an apology on the tip of his tongue. He hadn't meant to break the promise he had made to such an eager young boy.

"Honestly, John, if you're about to apologize, I insist you don't. I hardly kept my promises to you." For a moment Sherlock's eyes took on an entirely different distant expression. He rubbed his arm and then shook his head.

"You remember those?" John returned the chair across from the sofa.

"I thought I had deleted you all together, but I had just buried you. I promised you that I would stay out of trouble. And no more running away."

"You ran away again?"

"Yes. Frequently. I was also very bad at staying out of trouble, especially as I got older." He offered no further explanation, but John was curious.

"What happened?"

"Father died the next year. Mother tried her best, but she couldn't cope, and it was easy to leave the house when she was too far out of her head to notice that her son had gone missing for days on end." The words were _almost_ sad.

John nodded. "You were an exceptionally bright child. I mean, you're still bright but…"

Sherlock nodded. He picked up the tea as if he had just realized that it was there. "When did you come back, John?" Sherlock seemed incredibly focused on a point just beyond John's ear.

"Two years ago."

"Ahh… good. I'm glad you didn't call me up then. You wouldn't have liked to have seen what I had become."

"Meaning?"

The hand that wasn't wrapped around the teacup waved the question away. "It was before Lestrade made me clean up my act. I was just coming off my third overdose two years ago this time." John was shocked into silence and Sherlock became irrationally fearful. "I was terribly bored, John, I hope you understand. It was all because I was so terribly bored. I was _usually_ very careful… and I swear I don't…"

"It's fine." John said suddenly. "It's all fine."

The detective's face sagged slightly with relief. Sherlock stretched back out on the sofa; John picked up a new book. They sat in comfortable silence. After a while, John sighed.

"I would have stayed, you know. You asked me to stay. I would have, had things been different." He wonders if Sherlock resents him for leaving, if the younger Sherlock had harbored any ill will towards this man who had shown up, cared for him, and then left in a period of hours.

It was Sherlock's turn to smile as he turned his head towards John.

"Of course you would have. You were an extraordinary person, if I remember correctly… and I always do. You were the only other adult besides Mycroft who would give me the time of day."

"I was a coward afraid to go to war." John said with a bit of disgust.

"And yet you survived, and here we are." The taller man flexed his feet and resumed staring at the ceiling. "I think that it was perfectly fine timing that we ran into each other when we did… you did say you would find me one day. I hate to think how many Sherlock Holmes you ran into before you found the right one."

John laughed, suddenly remarkably at ease with the situation at hand.

"You _are_ the only one in the world."


End file.
